It’s seven ‘o clock when we pull into the car park at Bullocks, a fifty-two year old Southern Barbecue institution in Durham, North Carolina. A purple sunset is dissolving into a bank of smokey clouds above us. It’s humid, but nice. Fall is on our doorstep. A line of pensioners walk bow-legged through the front door, moving in slow motion, looking tired and full. The main dinner rush is over, but most of the regulars are on their way out by now.